So, Don't Go Away
by Dollybelleol'whatserface
Summary: Harry/Nikki. Nikki visits Harry in New York after the events in Mexico. Because...why else would she have gone there? Inspired by Emilia Fox saying that the love of Nikki's life was Harry.
1. Chapter 1

**So, don't go away**

 **Disclaimer: All property of the BBC.**

 **Author's note: Oh, hey! I haven't written ANYTHING since Leo died. I am a very different person in a very different life, but Nikki's comment in Moment of Surrender about stopping off in New York made me miss my favourite couple so very much!**

* * *

"Yeah? Well you can turn up tomorrow and sit in the conference room playing Candy Crush or pontificating on the rights of a goldfish, if you like but Professor Cunningham will _not_ be there…You have a nice day, now."

Harry heard the muffled crash of plastic on plastic as his secretary slammed the phone down in the room next door. He gave the faintest exhale that was supposed to be amusement, but was more likely hysteria at her choice of words.

An exhausted-looking, blonde woman with a newborn swaddled to her chest in bright muslin waddled slowly around the corner and gingerly sat down next to him.

"These bloody finance assessors, Harry. D'you reckon they use all their brain capacity crunching numbers so that they've got no grey matter left over for _hearing_?" she said thoughtfully, pressing a kiss to the top of the baby's wooly head. "Bloody idiots."

Harry looked at her with a pang of guilt, his brow furrowing at her unwashed hair and her beanbag belly. She was in no fit state to be at work; she'd only given birth two weeks ago but she had rushed into the university, breast-pump and bottles clanking merrily in her bag as soon as she'd seen the CNN report on the news. She had insisted on clearing his schedule and cancelling his seminars, ranting at him when he had tried to protest.

"What? So you're going to be able to stand there and teach when the person you love has been abducted in Mexico, are you? Give over, will you?"

So, shell-shocked and shaking, he had let her. He kept seeing that horrible breaking-news ticker tape crawl across his mind's eye; _British doctor, missing._

Of _course_ Nikki had made the news. He hadn't seen her for years, then there she was; her massive brown eyes staring out at him from the TV screen. Looking far too beautiful to be two-dimensional. He could feel every fiber of his heart disintegrating in panic and dread. Somewhere in his brain, he vaguely recollected that they had used her Facebook profile picture. She didn't even use it. She was all blonde curls and glacial cheekbones in a dark grey dress for some forensic gala, years ago. Then, he recognized that the cuff of a tuxedo that could only just be seen was _his._ That was when he staggered to the toilets to be sick.

He had existed in this perpetual state of emptiness ever since; the back of his neck was clammy, his eyes were glassy and he felt like he had several elastic bands around his chest.

He wanted to say, 'thank you,' but croaked out 'Allie,' instead.

She looked at him.

"If she's dead...,"

"She's not, Harry," she said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "Don't you dare give up on her. By the looks of it, the British embassy's already done that. Here," she said, unwrapping the baby from her chest. "Hold your godson, will you? Do something useful.

* * *

He wasn't sure how many days it had been; enough to grow stubble, enough for Allie to call him a cab and force him to go home. Which of those came first, though? He could remember sitting at his desk with a too-hot mug of coffee burning his palm, the stale, furry feeling in his mouth indicating that he desperately needed to brush his teeth, refreshing and refreshing the _Sky News_ website but not getting home.

It was five o'clock in the morning when his mobile rang. He had been dozing on the couch in his living room with the reading light and TV still on. A greasy whiskey glass was clasped loosely in his hand. He didn't recognise the international number.

"Hello?"

" _Harry_."

It wasn't a question or a greeting. It was more like a breath or a prayer. He felt his throat swell and swallowed, hard. He recognized that voice; it was thin and raspy, but still hers. He knew that from the goose bumps that had erupted on his arms and the pounding of his chest.

"Nikki?! Thank God. Where are you? Are you alright?"

There was a pause. He heard her muffle a sob.

"Can I come and see you?"

* * *

The last time he had seen Nikki; the real last time, not just grainy video feed on Face Time, was at Leo's funeral. He had stood at the back; an observer. As removed from the scene as the department heads and police officers that Leo had only met a handful of times. His eyes had flitted from the coffin to the beacon that was the back of Nikki's head.

Then, Nikki had got up to speak, and he had frozen in place, feeling the colour drain from his face at the sight of her. She had been wearing her 'brave' face; the one she wore for court and for the mortuary. He was probably the only person in that drafty church who had been able to see through it; see what was broken. The sight of that had upset him more than Leo's gleaming, dark coffin.

She had found him at the wake as he was stood in that achingly hipster pub making polite conversation with a group of technicians from the Lyell Centre, a tall man hovering at her side.

"You came," she had said, forcing a false smile on her face, giving him such a stiff, formal hug that it had almost been like hugging a mannequin. He had had time to briefly breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume before she had let go of him.

"Did you honestly think that I wouldn't?" he had asked her, trying to keep the bite of hurt out of his voice.

Her dark eyes had flashed at him, dangerously but then she had resumed her airhostess act and began thanking people for coming. He had not missed her giant bouncer friend staring at him, coldly.

Jet-lagged and exhausted, he had made his excuses and left an hour later, looking helplessly around the room for a woman he had known was not there.

She had been waiting outside for him hidden in the shadows, all wrapped up in her black coat beneath the broken security light. He had jumped when she had spoken.

"Leaving already?"

He had stopped, dead, watching her. Her face had been pale, her eyes too shiny.

"I've got an early flight, in the morning," he had told her, quietly, finding it difficult to make eye contact. He had stared at the wet ground, instead.

"Of course you do," she had said, bitterly, her jaw clenched.

"Nikki," he had said, softly.

Then, Nikki the Pathologist and Head Funeral Arranger disappeared and looking back at him, mouth trembling had been Nikki. His Nikki.

He had walked towards her tentatively, noticing her gaunt face, stick-thin legs and swollen eyes. He had felt his own face crumpling.

"What the _hell_ were you doing in Afghanistan?" he had shot at her, furiously, his voice breaking as he had roughly pulled her towards him in a tight embrace.

"Why the _fuck_ should that matter to you?" she had sobbed back at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shoulder.

She had cried, digging her chin into him and pulling his hair. He had let her rant and scream at him, resting his forehead against hers as he had felt warm tears roll down his cheeks.

She had alternated between hitting his chest, angrily and burying her face into his neck. He had felt something warm and wet on his throat, her hair tickling his nose and then she was kissing him, frantically, yet still crying…

He had kissed her back, one hand cupping her jaw, tenderly; the other wound in her hair, not sure whose salty tears he could taste…

He had broken their kiss, gently, leaving two soft ones on the corner of her mouth. He had touched his forehead to hers, breathing hard. Nikki had swallowed, trying to regain her composure, her shoulders heaving.

"Leo's dead, Harry," she had whispered, finally.

"I know," he had said sadly, one cold thumb stroking her cheek.

"You left," she had said, her voice quivering, sounding so anguished that it had made his chest ache. He had stared back at her, his face pained, hating himself.

"I know."

* * *

Families at the barrier in the arrivals lounge are holding homemade signs, with streamers. Drivers are holding headed cards with surnames scrawled across them in capital letters. Beside him, a little girl is sat, practically bouncing on her Dad's shoulders and excitedly craning her neck to see if the magic white doors are going to open to reveal her 'Momma' anytime soon.

He isn't holding a sign. He _had_ been clutching a takeout coffee, though because he has had about two hour's sleep, but he had downed that like a fresher with Tequila. He feels seriously empty-handed, but then what should he have brought, really? 'Here Nikki. Glad you survived being abducted. Have some flowers from the gas station?' He thumbed a crust of sleep out of the corner of his eye and resumed staring at the shiny marble floor. He had waited for her at the airport before, a few times, after her trips from South Africa and Sheffield, but never has he felt such a sense of desperation.

Ahead, the automatic doors spring into life and people begin to hurry out; people with no luggage or trolleys. There are a few businessmen in crumpled suits and then a cheerleading team in matching blue tracksuits, with insanely perky ponytails in direct contrast to their ashen, tired faces.

Then, a woman with short blonde hair and a trapeze cardigan comes strutting purposefully through the automatic doors with that familiar ballerina-like posture and his breath catches in his chest. It is _her._

But then, something happens that he isn't expecting. She falters. He sees her slow down, watches her shoulders droop slightly and her head dart from side-to-side as she scans the crowd, looking lost.

He steps into view and watches her expression flash from anxiety to recognition, relief and then settle on a cautious smile. She is blonder and there are more noticeable crows' feet around her eyes to go with the more defined lines across her forehead but she still looks luminescently beautiful. Like a sad china doll.

He hurries towards her, his feet moving of their own accord and then suddenly she is within touching distance. They had spent years using any excuse to invade each other's personal space. If he'd needed a pen, he would have crept up behind her, blew in her ear and then leant over her shoulder to take one from her desk. What did it matter if the stationary drawer was closer to him? So how come he has no idea what to do with his arms?

She comes to a halt in front of him and she has this uncertain smile on her face like a bambi-eyed Mona Lisa and she smells like stale air and disinfectant.

"Where's all your luggage?" he asks her, by way of hello.

Nikki shrugs heavily.

"It's all here."

How very like her to use evasive humour.

Wordlessly, he crosses his arms around her neck and tucks her head underneath his chin. He feels her slip her arms underneath his coat and pull him closer. They stay that way until the arrivals hall empties.


	2. Chapter 2

**So, Don't Go Away**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Witness. All characters are property of** **the BBC. I maintain that it should have been Harry rocking up on Christmas Day. *scowls***

* * *

Bones of the hand, bones of the hand. _Scaphoid, Trapezium, Trapezoid…_

He had learnt them all when he was 10 years old and top of the class for science. He had x-rayed them as a junior doctor, re-set them as a surgeon and identified them as a pathologist. Now, he was staring down at Nikki's injured hand, naming all of the bones in her hand over and over in an attempt to keep his emotions under control as he listened to her.

He gently ran his thumb over the back of her hand. It was covered in cuts and scratches and there was a fresh bruise from where she had clearly just had a cannula removed. She had been gripping his hand, tightly throughout their cab ride back to his apartment and had not let go in the 20 or so minutes that it took to tell him everything she could.

She was speaking in her doctor's voice. She may not have practiced medicine for a long time but she had still been trained in breaking bad news and these were the skills she was employing as she spoke to him in her level, controlled voice. Whatever inner turmoil she was experiencing, she was hiding it under deep-rooted professionalism.

When she was finished, Harry swallowed, trying to ignore the painful lump in his throat and looked at her with a sort of angry resignation. She had come so close to dying and he hadn't been there. But _she_ had put herself in that situation…He didn't know whether he was mostly angry or relieved, but he knew that his hands were shaking. He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him so that he could kiss her hairline, before he got to his feet abruptly.

Nikki stared at him in surprise, her brow furrowed as he retreated to the next room and reappeared with his briefcase.

"Can I see your discharge letter?"

Nikki looked at the ceiling and sighed. "They kept me in for overnight observation and IV fluids for dehydration," she told him in a bored voice. Nevertheless, she pulled a sheaf of paper out of her handbag. "Here."

Harry took the papers she was thrusting at him and absent-mindedly put on a pair of reading glasses. He scanned the official-looking documents quickly, his eyes struggling to focus on the English amongst all the Spanish.

Nikki smirked at him, "Ooh, someone's eyesight is going." She leaned in. "Oh God. Of _course_ they're Gucci."

"Shut up, they're just for reading," he told her, curtly but peering over the top of his glasses with an advert-worthy smoulder.

"I like them," said Nikki, fondly. "Very Jude Law."

" _Yes_ , well if you could stop finding me so attractive for a second. It's inappropriate in a woman who spent two days in a box, thank you."

Harry paced back and forth across his living room floor as he read.

Nikki smiled wryly, her eyes following him. "I blame the hypoxia."

"Mmmh," responded Harry. He continued to read, nodding along, as if agreeing with whatever nameless Mexican doctor had no doubt rattled off the dictation at the end of an 18-hour shift. He squinted down at her drug list.

"Cipro and… _Indomethacin_?"

"Scorpion bite," replied Nikki, quietly.

Harry shot her a dark look and went back to reading her blood results.

"Your potassium level is shocking," he told her, sounding aghast. "I'm surprised they let you out."

He peered down at her, eyes raking over her pale face and the purple bags under her eyes and walked out of the room.

"Well, they were fairly eager to repatriate me. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the red tape involved in case a British Home Office pathologist died on Mexican soil," she joked, shifting on the sofa so that her legs were tucked up underneath her.

Harry's eyes flashed at her, reprovingly, as he came back in with his briefcase. "Don't."

There was a small silence between them. Harry became acutely aware of the kitchen clock ticking loudly behind him.

"Sorry," she muttered, breaking eye contact and looking down at her knees.

"Alright," said Harry, with an air of finality. "Come here. Put your legs down," he ordered, waving a hand at her.

Nonplussed, Nikki did as she was told, sitting up straight on the sofa as Harry pulled a blood-pressure cuff out of his briefcase.

"Oh for _heaven's_ sake, Harry," she fumed, impatiently. "Is that really necessary?"

"Shush. Give me your arm,"

Nikki gave him what was evidently the dirtiest look she could muster. He had seen her use it on idiots, chauvinists and general scum. A lesser man would have quailed under its ferocity but he was so happy that she was here and alive, with a warm, toned arm underneath his fingertips, that he merely found it amusing.

Nikki sat very still; the perfect patient, as he pulled out a stethoscope and measured her blood pressure. The silence came back again, as he listened intently.

"Your blood pressure's fine," he informed her. "115/20."

"There's a relief," she muttered, sarcastically.

Harry flicked her upper arm as he released the cuff, the sound of the Velcro loud and harsh in his quiet flat.

"Can I listen to your chest, please?"

Nikki sighed but pulled her shirt to one side, trying not to flinch when the cold head of the stethoscope touched her skin.

"Stop controlling your breathing."

"Sorry."

Harry listened; well, tried to listen as best as he could when he was hyper-aware of her warm breath on his neck.

"Chest sounds are equal. Slightly tachy, though," he murmured, sounding displeased, his eyes searching hers.

Nikki gave him the glimmer of a smile. "I don't think I've ever been called tacky in my life."

"I've seen you eat a kebab on a kerb once, at 2 o'clock in the morning, singing _Like a Virgin_ ," he shot back, laughing.

Nikki gasped in mock outrage. "Excuse me. It was _Like a Prayer."_

She caught hold of his wrist, wrapping her fingers around it, tightly to stop him from getting anything else out of his briefcase.

"I don't need you to be my doctor, Harry," she said quietly. Stop it."

Harry sighed and turned his hand over so that his fingers linked with hers, rubbing his unshaven jaw with his free hand. "My patients tend to have a touch more rigor mortis than you, but fine. I'll be whatever you want me to be, Nikki," he said gently, bumping his knee to hers. "What do you need? Shower? Bed? We can order take out?"

"Take _away_ ," warned Nikki, pointing a finger at him.

"Take away," corrected Harry, chucking her under the chin.

Nikki looked down at their joined hands and then up into his eyes. Her eyelids looked heavy; as if they were made out of tin.

"You," she murmured, resting her head back against the sofa and closing her eyes.

"Hmmh?

Nikki half-opened her eyes and looked sideways at him. "I need you," she said, simply.


End file.
